


At Any Time

by musical_emjay



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Charles You Slut, Erik You Creepy Fuck, M/M, Public Sex, Rimming, Stranger Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musical_emjay/pseuds/musical_emjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strangers on a train. Things go as you might expect.</p><p>or</p><p>Charles makes a bold proposition, and Erik should really know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Any Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "public sex" square on my kink_bingo card. This is utterly ridiculous filth, and I'm kind of embarrassed to be posting it, but whatever. I wanted to write pure porn without having to write 50K of plot first, and this is what happened.

Erik sees the boy for the first time on a bitterly cold November morning.

He'd be just another face in the crowd, standing patiently further along the subway platform with a school satchel slung over one shoulder, if it weren't for the ridiculous red bow of his mouth. Erik hears him first, a bright peal of laughter to his right, and when he turns a little to follow the sound the flash of colour catches his eye, snags him like a hook in the gut.

He's talking to someone, a cell phone held up to his ear, and Erik watches the mobile curl and spread of his lips, the flash of teeth when he smiles. Looking closer, he notices his cheeks, flushed a lighter but no less captivating colour. The boy is exquisite, and young -- maybe sixteen, seventeen at the most, and Erik stares because simply cannot bear to look away. Because he is not a good man. Because he'll gladly burn the memory of that mouth into his thoughts, take it with him to bed and use it however he cares to.

When the train eventually comes Erik loses him in the crush of people surging forward, and doesn't spot him for the rest of his commute. He isn't particularly disappointed. There will always be pretty young boys.

 

||

 

It's months before they cross paths again. 

Erik's on his way home from work this time, dozing in his seat, arms crossed and eyes closed. The train pulls up to a stop, and suddenly the car is much louder than it was before, a familiar rabble, one he hears every day. There's a school nearby, some posh private academy that has their boys in smart navy jackets and girls in plaid skirts, and he's come to expect this huddle of chattering teenagers waiting and ready to shove into the already packed car, their voices loud and abrasive. 

Erik's learned to tune them out, for the sake of his own sanity. 

Today, however, he's on edge. His patience is thin, anger bubbling under the surface, just waiting for a reason to lash out. To say it's been a trying day would be vastly understating the utter clusterfuck he's left behind at the office, and he's in no mood to be obliging. 

Which is why when a heavy bag filled with what feels like cinderblocks bumps carelessly against the bony spur of his knee, Erik reacts as he does. Why he reacts at all, really. It doesn't even hurt, just enough of a knock to be annoying, but his eyes flash open anyway, seeking out the owner of the satchel. Someone to focus the full extent of his anger on, an outlet for this seething irritation burning under his skin, even if they hardly deserve it. Erik doesn't care. In the past he's chewed out his subordinates for much less.

But when he looks up -- it's the boy, the one from the platform all those months ago. You don't forget a face like his. He'd jerked off to thoughts of that mouth for weeks afterward, dashing himself to pieces on the shore of his fantasies again and again and again till it lost the thrill of newness.

But now he's here, standing in front of where Erik is seated, half turned away so Erik can see the exquisite line of his profile. He's got ear-buds in, looks oblivious to the crush of people around him and the laser like intensity of Erik's glare. 

It's a gift, really. Erik takes full advantage of the boy's distraction, letting his eyes roam greedily. He takes in the sharp blazer -- identical to the one worn by the other boys around him -- the slightly loosened tie, the navy trousers that just skirt the edge of too small. Almost indecent, the way they drape around the boy's small, compact frame -- lightly muscled thighs, a soft swell at his crotch, his lovely round ass.   

Erik wonders if it's deliberate, if the boy likes his pants a little tight, the way it feels. Or maybe it's unconscious, spurred on by denial of the thrill he gets when people notice him, when he catches them looking: the girl in the hallway, the boy on the street, the teacher who always smiles at him and finds excuses to keep him behind after class. 

Maybe he wants it, but doesn't know how to ask.

Erik is grateful for the hard-shell briefcase sitting over his lap, feeling his cock start to stiffen just from looking, from letting his thoughts wander. He only caught a glimpse of the boy last time, but now he can appreciate him fully, and it makes the lust surging under his skin burn hotter than hellfire. The train rattles on, getting more and more crowded as they go, and Erik stares until he feels gluttonous and gorged, his cock swelling, pressed against the unyielding barrier of leather. 

And then the train rolls to a loud, shrieking stop, and the boy leans down to pick up another bag placed securely between his feet, treating Erik to the sight of his ass straining against thin navy wool for one all too brief moment before he straightens again and exits onto the platform.

Erik watches him walk away, follows his progress like a starving predator, and revels in one last surge of desire before letting it diminish, safe in the knowledge that he'll have plenty of time to indulge the moment he gets home. 

For now, he subsides.

 

||

 

Erik doesn't expect to see the boy again, chalks up the encounter to nothing more than a pleasant coincidence.

And then he appears on Erik's station platform again, just as he did that first time, dressed in his school blues and still hauling around that enormous satchel. He's standing close enough that it's likely they'll board the same train car, and Erik watches him from the corner of one eye while they wait, noticing the blunt, pleasingly nimble fingers as he flicks around on his phone. 

It's cold today, the wind having just enough of a bite to bring a red flush to his cheeks, but he hardly needs the help. Everything about him is vibrantly coloured, lush and alive, somehow seeming to pop when set against the dreary grey of the late January morning. 

Once the train arrives they end up seated across from each other, and Erik doesn't bother to be coy -- it's not his way, always unabashedly direct with his desires until the point at which it's made clear his attention is unwanted. He stares and stares, trying to take in every aspect of him, and for the longest time the boy remains oblivious, nose still buried in his phone like so many young people often are. His hair is a thick, tousled mess, falling down over his brow, and Erik wants to push it back, see his eyes clearly for once. It's all he needs to complete the picture.

Eventually, though, he pockets the phone, tilts his head back, looks to the side. Erik breathes in slowly through his nose, lays his forearms across the briefcase in his lap, fingers lacing together -- it's the only thing keeping him from reaching under and palming at his cock, overwhelmed by the bolt of lust that sears through him. 

The boy is beautiful, disarmingly so. Erik doesn't understand how anyone can look at him and not want to take him apart, put their hands all over him and make him beg. Perhaps he has a girlfriend, some plain, bookish, wilting flower who adores him, can't believe her luck that someone like him would want her. He would be soft, all careful hands and romantic gestures, fuck her on her bed when her parents are out of town, the two of them curled together under the covers. Perhaps, even as he worships her, he wishes someone would worship _him_ instead, take the initiative and put him on his back, hold him down. 

Erik would do it, gladly, would make sure he _felt_ it --

The boy glances up, gaze catching on Erik's own, holding it for the briefest, agonizing fraction of a second before quickly looking away again. 

His cheeks flush darker, hands clenching along the flap of his satchel. He appears surprised, charmingly flustered.

Erik bites the inside of his cheek, _hard_ , and attempts to smother the grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. He loves seeing this moment, the shock of people realizing they are something rather less than anonymous, something more than just a face in the crowd. No one ever quite expects it; most are excited, if only a little, just from the novelty of it -- but the thrill fades quickly. Sometimes they'll look back, interest piqued, but more often they clam up, discomfort floating to the surface. This is when Erik gives up, shifts his gaze elsewhere, uninterested in forcing what isn't there.

But this one -- Erik wants him to look back, wants it so sharply his gut is churning, teeth starting to grind slowly together. His cock is half hard, body singing one high, shrill note of desperation. This one he _wants_.

After what seems like an impossible eternity, the boy finally looks back.

Erik lets some of his grin appear, just enough to tease, hint at his intentions. The boy blinks, glances down, back up again, sucks in his lower lip to bite and worry at it. 

Erik waits. 

They pass two more stations. At the third a heavily pregnant woman gets on, and the boy jumps up almost immediately to offer her his seat, which she takes with a grateful smile. This leaves him standing right in front of Erik, just as close as he was the last time; he grips the pole with both hands and leans against it, face tilted down.

With his voice swallowed up by the rattling cacophony of the train, Erik almost doesn't hear him when he unexpectedly speaks.

"I saw you looking," he says, idly, as if he doesn't care either way. His eyes remain firmly fixed on the dirty train-car floor. Erik imagines what he might do if there were less people around them, if they were alone, nudging up the boy's chin so his gaze has nowhere else to go. He doesn't reply, though; if the boy wants an answer, he needs to look Erik in the face first.

The silence stretches out for a bit, and Erik watches with smug satisfaction as the boy squirms, perhaps not used to being deliberately ignored. As a posh private school boy, he's probably never been denied a thing in his entire life.

Erik likes making people work for it, especially young ones like this.

The next moment, however, derails all his plans. He hears the station announcement -- it's his, of course. Erik almost curses, but manages to hold himself in check enough to murmur, "Excuse me, this is my stop," because he's not about to show his hand when he can't even follow through. Best to let the boy think he's read the situation wrong for the time being. 

He doesn't move out of Erik's way, though. Instead, he makes a curious little noise of surprise, eyes flicking up to Erik's own. "Mine too," he says, and it's not a line. It's quite obviously the truth. The first time Erik ever saw him was on the platform nearest his apartment, after all.

Well. Another pleasant coincidence. 

The boy backs up as Erik stands, drifts over to the doors and gives Erik his back. They look at each other in the narrow window's reflection, the boy shifting from foot to foot, their hands curled around the same pole one above the other.

The train pulls into the station with its usual screech of breaks and the boy exits, Erik following behind, just close enough to let the boy know he's there but not too close as to look suspicious. The emerge out onto the street and start walking east, the boy looking over his shoulder every now and again to make sure Erik hasn't come to his senses and broken away, gone home like he should. 

Erik has no intention whatsoever of doing that. He knows what the boy wants, and is all too happy to give it to him. He'll go wherever he needs to, even if only to get a one-time taste -- the look in the boy's eyes whenever he catches Erik's gaze says much the same thing, and the knowledge that this gorgeous little slut wants him just as badly makes Erik's head spin. He watches the boy's ass as he walks, peeking out from under the tails of his blazer, and imagines putting his hands there, squeezing, parting the cheeks to spit and _lick_ \-- 

Erik comes back to himself when the boy stops walking abruptly, leaving Erik to come up alongside him, just inside the perimeter of what the city likes to think of as a park but is really nothing more ambitious than a large stretch of open grounds, the grass browned in patches, ill-maintained. The boy turns and murmurs, "The public washrooms over there are locked," he gestures discreetly towards the brick building nearby, "but I know how to get in."

Erik is…impressed. The boy has clearly done this before, probably many times before, enough to have a plan already in place. He should perhaps feel angry, or irritated, to be just another nameless man in what must be a long, long line, but Erik couldn't care less about that. 

There will always be pretty young men. This one is hardly special, for all that he's exquisitely beautiful, lush and ready to be ruined.

The speed with which the boy picks the lock is even more impressive, and the two of them slip inside, fluorescent light flickering to life. Erik drops his briefcase by the door, and without so much as a word of warning backs the boy up against the row of sinks. He makes a little choked sound of surprise, blue eyes gone half-lidded.

The surface of the counter is surprisingly clean, so Erik doesn't hesitate to grip the boy by the thighs and hitch him up, grinning when he spreads his legs further in reaction, eager and obliging. 

"What should I call you?" Erik asks in a breathy murmur as he leans close and mouths along the shell of one pale, delicate ear. "Or will 'boy' suffice for a dirty bathroom fuck?"

"Charles," is his reply, shuddering. "Call me Charles."

Erik's hands flex slowly, and a small, dark chuckle works itself free of his throat.

"Of course your name is Charles," he murmurs. "I imagine people think you're a good boy, don't they?"

Charles squirms, turns his face away. The blush of red from the cold is deeper now, spilling down below his smartly buttoned collar and knotted tie. 

"Shut up," he insists, and Erik is surprised to hear a lovely thread of steel in his voice. The boy knows what he wants, probably isn't used to so much talk. But Erik knows what he wants, too, and he's warming to the game. It'll be interesting to see how far he can push.

"Good, proper Charles," he persists. "If only they knew how desperate you are to get fucked. Propositioning strange men on the subway, how depraved."

Charles pushes him back with both palms flat against his chest. Erik leans away, but doesn't let go. They're still pressed tightly together, Erik's waist gripped by the warm embrace of thick, fleshy thighs. 

"You're the one looking to fuck a teenaged boy," Charles says lightly, blue eyes flashing a warning. "Neither of us are in a position to be throwing stones. So get on with it, or I'll go find someone else."

Erik's lips part in a slow smile, teeth bared. "If you insist."

He draws Charles in, nudges his chin up for a slow, lingering kiss. The feel of the boy's mouth against his own is sweeter than he could have imagined, so plush and giving he can't help but to instantly surge forward for more. Charles lips part, his wicked little tongue flicking out teasingly as Erik coaxes his jaw to drop, making space. 

When Erik finally lets him go, drawing back with a filthy, saliva-wet sound, his head is spinning, almost whited out with lust. He can't believe that such a thing could ever be allowed, that it could happen at all. Charles is clutching at the lapels of Erik's suit jacket, legs hooked behind his knees, and he sounds bereft, pitiful, like he's being denied. Erik has no intention of letting him go, but Charles has no way of knowing that. He'll have to be more demonstrative, make his intentions clearer, leave him with no doubt whatsoever that Erik will _have him_ before they go their separate ways. 

Charles grunts, sounding frustrated, and tugs on Erik's jacket. "Enough foreplay," he says, and Erik almost laughs. So jaded, for one so young.

"Places to be?" He smirks, absently unbuttoning Charles' shirt with one hand, just enough to slip inside and feel all that lovely, milky skin under his palm.

"Yes, actually," Charles snaps, but he shudders when Erik flicks idly against his nipple. "Come _on_."

Erik doesn't like to be rushed, but perhaps a little speed will remind Charles of his place. 

His mouth twists and he backs off abruptly, tugging Charles off his perch and spinning him around to force him over the lip of the counter. Charles makes a noise like he's been winded, though it slides quickly into a moan when Erik reaches for his belt and makes quick work of tugging both trouser and underwear down over his ass, letting them fall to the floor. All told it takes maybe five seconds, and Charles' face in the foggy mirror when Erik glances up is shocked and overwhelmed. His colour's high, though, his eyes glassy. He's willing, ready, perfectly yielding. 

Erik doesn't look much better, and he knows it without even having to see. His pulse is hammering, cock swelling painfully against his fly as he stares down at Charles' ass, hands already gripping and clenching, spreading. Without even thinking he folds to his knees, mouth gone with wet with saliva. He knows what he wants.

The sound Charles makes when Erik thumbs at his hole is indecent. Erik does it again, slow and considering, then spits.

The sound Charles makes then puts the first to shame. He flinches violently, thighs beginning to tremble.

" _Oh_ , what -- what are you--?"

Erik ignores him. He rubs his thumb in a rough circle, massaging, and thrills to hear Charles moan and gasp each time he dips in, a brief bit of pressure before sliding away. Then he leans in to lick, and Charles nearly squeals. It's obvious no one has ever done this to Charles before, which Erik finds difficult to fathom, but he's hardly going to pass up such a perfect gift, not when Charles writhes so prettily on his tongue. No doubt his face is flushed with embarrassment, ashamed at how much he loves it.

But as much as Erik wants to hear him scream, is so sure he won't be satisfied with anything less, the danger of what they're doing is impossible to ignore. He draws back, murmurs, "You have to be quiet, Charles," before kissing wetly at one cheek, letting teeth graze over skin. Charles makes a muffled sound in reply, and when Erik's eyes flick upwards he can see the boy has stuffed a fist in his mouth. His lips look swollen and used, shining with saliva. Erik's cock _throbs_.

"Very good," he says approvingly, voice shaking a little, and tears his eyes away before the sight of it derails him completely.

He returns to his work, spreads Charles' ass and laves over his hole until his mouth feels numb, until his chin is soaked with his own spit and Charles is nearly undone. He sounds desperate, one choked off groan after another, throat clicking and chest hitching as he tries to keep silent but can't quite manage it completely. Erik is almost dizzy with how much his wants to fuck this boy, shove his cock in deep and punch those noises out of him. He wants to see Charles struggle, his body trembling with the fear of being caught -- Erik instincts blare at him not to be cocky, not to tempt fate, but his desire is stronger, louder, and seeing Charles try so hard to keep his silence is nearly more arousing than the sounds themselves. 

The knowledge that it _is_ a struggle -- it's good. It's very good.

By now Charles has collapsed onto his forearms, bent in half over the counter, muttering breathy little pleas that only just reach Erik's ears. He's removed the hand from his mouth to grasp at the edge of the counter, and there are bite marks vividly raised on his skin.

"F-Fuck me, please, _please_ \--" He shifts restlessly from foot to foot, pushing back against the firm bracket of Erik's hands, fingers curled around hips and thumbs keeping him spread wide and exposed. "I'm ready. Please, just _do it_ , fuck me. _Fuck me_."

It's mindless, the way he repeats himself. Begging. Erik would have to be made of stone not to oblige him.

He glides to his feet, grips Charles' hair and tugs gently to raise his bowed head. Their eyes meet in the mirror. "I don't suppose you have anything besides spit to make this easier?" Erik asks wryly. 

Charles blinks, some of the fog leaving his eyes, and smirks, his expression rueful. "As a matter of fact…"

Erik watches, pleasantly surprised, as Charles extends one leg out to the right, toeing at the strap of his bag on the floor where it was unceremoniously dropped, dragging it closer. "In the right side pocket," Charles says. 

Erik investigates, finds a small, travel sized bottle of lube, already half-empty. A strip of condoms keeps it company. Erik tears one packet off and stands again, places them on the counter next to where Charles' hands are clenched knuckle-white, even still.

"Do this a lot, do you?" he asks, raising one brow. For a moment Charles appears conflicted, like he can't quite figure out which answer is the one Erik wants to hear -- and then he shrugs, affecting a look of haughty indifference.

"Surely you've figured that out by now?" Charles asks. "You don't look particularly dim, but I've been wrong before."

Erik stares back at him, considers briefly the idea of a smack across the ass for that comment, but subsides. He doesn't much like the idea of rising to Charles' bait. It's juvenile, and there are better uses of his time.

Such as slicking himself up and fingering Charles open, methodically, one digit at a time until he has four buried deep and Charles stunned into submission, quivering like a leaf caught in a storm, almost chewing clean through his own wrist to keep from giving them away. Erik does it fast, almost viciously, not enough to hurt but more than enough to bowl Charles over with the sensation of being stretched wide and stuffed, no time to breathe or acclimate. He wonders if any of those other nameless, faceless men who've had Charles ever did this for him, did this _to_  him -- or did they fuck him fast and hard, getting off quickly and then fleeing again. Were they terrified of being caught, ashamed of themselves for wanting it so badly, never so much as looked twice at anyone so young before Charles was there to offer them the opportunity?

Erik doesn't care. If he's going to do this once, do it at all, he's going to do it properly, stretch all the muscles of his desire until every one is aching and well used. He can chastise himself over it later -- and he will, when he stops to think about it. 

Right now, though; right now he's going to fuck this boy in a public toilet and make him love it. Maybe it'll be enough to be remembered. He likes the thought of that.

When Erik starts to undo the buckle of his belt, Charles whines piteously and arches back onto the fingers of his other hand where they're still thrusting slowly in and out. "Come on, _come on_ ," he breathes, and this time Erik decides to listen. 

He pulls down his zipper, reaches in to pull out his cock, hissing at the touch of his own hand. Charles makes a choked sound of disbelief.

"Oh, bloody hell, you're big," he gasps, glassy-eyed and hazy as he watches Erik prepare himself, not bothering to reach for more lube when he's already soaked in his own slick. On the upstroke he squeezes gently, waits for another thick pulse to spill over and spreads it down. 

And then he pulls his fingers free of Charles' ass, and pushes in before the boy can recognize the absence, nudging slowly but surely till his hole stretches around the head of Erik's cock and then takes the rest of him like he was born for it. Erik bites down savagely on his own lower lip, fighting back the groan that wants to tear itself free of his throat as his hips butt up against the mottled red skin he'd been clutching at not long before. He breathes through his nose, eyes squeezed shut, and waits out the maddening urge to come, until he can feel it flowing back out like the tide.

Opening his eyes again presents him with an all new set of problems, first among them the sight of Charles stretched wide around his cock, the strange juxtaposition of that obscenity set against the prim, clean-cut navy blue of his blazer where it fans out around the swell of his ass. It seems absurd that Charles has yet to remove it, has only gone so far as to allow Erik to bare his bottom half. He must be sweating through his shirt by now, maybe smearing the cotton with fluid from his own cock as it no doubt strains up against his belly, untouched.

It's enough to have his vision blurring, stomach cramping with lust. He thrusts, reflexive, and Charles gasps in response, reaching back to pull Erik even closer.

" _Ohh_ , yeah, that's good." His hips roll, encouraging Erik to keep moving. "Again. Harder."

Erik drags himself out, torturously slow, and then pushes back in. He wants Charles to feel it, the inexorable glide, stuffed so full he can't bear the stretch, doesn't think he could take any more. 

Predictably, Charles starts to squirm, huffing and restless when Erik refuses to cooperate. Erik enjoys the tease, keeping it languorous, measured, revelling in the push and pull of every inch. Every now and again he breaks the pattern with a brutal thrust, jostling Charles forward so his hips bump up against the counter, and listens with satisfaction to the hastily muffled cry of surprise. Immediately after he returns to his previous pace, leaving Charles to regroup. 

Eventually, though, it's not enough. 

Just when Charles seems almost about to break his silence and scream with frustration, Erik shifts his stance and screws in as deep as he can go, forcing Charles up onto his toes. His back arches, emphasizing the fleshy round of his ass like some desperate whore, presenting himself to be fucked. Erik nearly loses his mind, begins to thrust faster, harder, just as Charles has been begging for this whole time, and can't help but be mesmerized by the bounce of thick, welted flesh when they slap together skin to skin. 

"You're so perfect for this," Erik breathes, his voice gravelly and intimate. "Is this why you wear your trousers so tight? You want everyone to see, don't you?"

"Christ, shut up," Charles whines, his cheeks gone flaming with more than just the flush of sex. "Just shut up and fuck me."

He yelps when Erik drags him up, pulls him flush against his chest, puts his mouth close to Charles' ear. "I bet no one's called you on it, you little slut. They'd never guess. You're so proper, they all think you just don't notice how you are, the way you walk, the way you bend and show yourself to whoever wants a look."

Charles' eyes flutter shut, and his whole body goes weak with submission, held like a doll in Erik's arms while he's fucked, shirt rucked up by Erik's grasping hand. Erik watches them together in the mirror, enflamed by how small Charles looks in front of him, how he seems to quake with every thrust. 

And then all of a sudden Charles is coming, violently, straining back with a high, frantic stream of invocations. "Oh god, oh _god_ , yeah, yeah, _oh_ \--"

He's loud, too loud, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the room around them, but Erik has no hope of stopping him.

Of stopping _himself_ , when he comes soon after, groaning long and low into the shell of Charles' ear as his cock jerks and spills, grinding forward to feel every last pulse of sensation.

In the aftermath, the silence is thunderous, ringing. They stay frozen in their obscene tableau for one long moment, the both of them still panting and shaking, and then Erik pulls out, carefully. It's at this point that Erik realizes he didn't use a condom, and suffers a brief flash of worry, followed by resignation. There's nothing to be done about it now.

Charles makes a small noise of discomfort and dismay, but is all business once Erik has dealt with the mess all over his hands, having cleaned up and put his clothes in order by the time Erik turns back to him. Standing there with his dick out while Charles shoulders his bag and smoothes his hair into place, poker-faced and nonchalant, is without a doubt one of the stranger experiences of Erik's life.

"I'll go first," Charles says softly, and though he's trying very hard to play at being casual, Erik can see how he's still flushed under his collar, his absurdly blue eyes glittering as though with fever. He can't quite meet Erik's gaze.

"I suggest you leave soon after, if you want to be safe," Charles continues. He rubs at his mouth, looks to the side. "So, um, thanks."

And then he disappears, slipping out through the door before Erik can say so much as a single word in reply. 

Erik stands there for almost a full minute, taking stock, then goes to the counter to clean himself up, wiping off the sweat and slick and come with a handful of paper towels that feel like sandpaper against his cock. He thinks about what might happen, if anything, the next time they see each other. It's bound to happen sooner or later, though he expects Charles to furiously ignore him, to have put the encounter out of his mind, no matter how much Erik might have fantasized in the moment of having made an indelible mark on Charles' skin, something to be remembered by.

So Erik puts it out of his own mind, and walks away.

 

||

 

But that isn't what happens.

It's Friday. He's on his way home again, a few months on, and has shoved his way through the crowd to stand near the doors of the train car, waiting for his stop. He feels someone smaller and sturdier shove in beside him, and looks down, irritated.

It's Charles. Of course it's Charles, looking back at him, utterly guileless, expression blank save for the light blush on the apples of his cheeks.

Erik glances away again, heart thudding painfully in his chest, cock already starting to fill.

"My parents are away this weekend," Charles murmurs, so quietly that Erik almost doesn't hear him over the screech and roar of the subway.The deja-vu is almost staggering, how similar this all seems, from the soft timbre of Charles' voice to the almost professional way he makes his proposition. Erik wants to shake him, for reasons he can't quite parse, ask him _why now_?

But there's no time. They pull into the station, Erik's station -- _Charles'_  station too -- and the doors open, spilling them out onto the platform. Charles walks away, doesn't even look back, though his hips have the faintest sway to them, a pleasantly familiar sight after months of nothing but memory. Erik watches him go, drinks it in as he did once before.

He wonders what it says about him that the decision is already made, that it was hardly a decision to begin with.

Erik follows Charles' progress down the platform until he's almost around the corner, at which point he visibly hesitates, looks over his shoulder, startled to see Erik not there.

So Erik finally shoulders his own bag, and follows. 

 

||

 

the end.


End file.
